


Peniaur (Ancient One)

by erobey



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey





	Peniaur (Ancient One)

Peniaur

  by erobey | un-beta'd |  _Italics=thoughts_

#  Peniaur (Ancient One)

#### Imladris, mid- Third Age

_Elrond moved efficiently around the room, gathering what he needed from the supply of herbs and tonics, gauze bandages and sponges, fine bone needles, obsidian and mithril instruments arrayed upon the table. Two aids hovered near, healers in their own rights, or what passed for healers in this dismal, blighted place. He scowled and squinted up and around him at the dimness of the cavernous chamber._

"More light," he commanded and at once the elves hastened to bring lamps. These were set near the bed where the injured elf lay still and silent, limp and bloody. Quickly he set about cutting away the garments, removing the battlefield dressing, noting the skill with which it had been applied surely spared the elf from bleeding to death. At last he exposed the source of the crimson flow and began the meticulous work of repairing the gaping tear wrought by a heavy, malicious sword. It required a great deal of time but when he was finished, Elrond was satisfied his patient would survive. He told the aids as much, beamed to see their relief and hear their gratitude, and left them to bathe and dress his charge.

He strode out into the hall, yawning hugely and stretching his arms high and then back, eyes squeezing shut for a second. When he opened them, there was a little urchin of an elfling blocking his way, eyes huge and round and intensely blue. Elrond blinked, not sure if the figure was real or an illusion, for he could not guess from whence the elfling had sprung. He smiled at the grave countenance regarding him and was just about to ask the child his name when the elfling spoke.

"Peniaur," he said solemnly, "are you here to help my Ada get well?"

Elrond raised a brow, not sure it was entirely polite for this waif to call him 'ancient one'. Surely he looked lordly and powerful, everyone said so, and the child should address him by proper title, accompanying his greeting with a gracious bow. He frowned; here was yet another example of the uncouth, uncivilised manners of the Wood Elves. Still, he must answer. That was when the remainder of the henellon's query finally popped up into his awareness.

"Your Ada?" he stammered, watching as the pinched face nodded silently. Now he felt terrible.This was Thranduil's littlest son and he was obviously making a supreme effort to keep his fear and dread in check. Elrond forgave every impropriety in his address and immediately squatted down on his haunches to bring himself eye-level with the child.

"His hurts are serious, but I believe he will recover fully in time, especially if he has someone who loves him watching over his convalescence." Elrond wasn't sure the child understood all those words and didn't care as he was rewarded by a warm, frantic squeeze as lean lithe arms wrapped around his neck and a golden head snuggled against his shoulder.

"Thank you," said the child, pressing a kiss upon his cheek, and flashed a brilliant smile as he slipped into the room where the mighty King of Elves lay senseless.

Elrond gazed after him a second in delight, deciding an honest, natural, straightforward manner was indeed preferable to schooled courtesies that meant nothing. He proceeded down the corridor, finding a room with clear water to bathe away the blood and gore and a bed to rest upon. He permitted himself a full two hours of reverie before returning to the King's sick-room, there to find him still unconscious.

All the vital signs were strong, however, and so the Elven Lord was satisfied. He relieved the aid, promising to come and fetch him for the next watch, as he did not want Thranduil left alone in case some unexpected turn for the worse occurred. Elrond settled into the bedside chair just vacated by the sylvan healer and reached for the book the elf had been reading.

It was an anthology of poetry, or what passed for it here in the Woodland Realm, and Elrond decided it would be good for a laugh if nothing else. To his surprise, he found the verse both moving and thought provoking, the writers sensitive and comprehensive in their expression of the conditions of the heart and soul common to all elves.

The night wore on, not that he could tell trapped in this warren of stone Thranduil optimistically called a fortress. Yet the sense of other elves moving about had definitely receded. Sounds he hadn't really consciously charted were now stark in their absence, and Elrond began to feel the weight of the massive rock above his head. He shivered, glancing up to the rough ceiling where old, dry stalactites stabbed down into the empty air. He gazed around the room at the windowless walls, longing to find one but realising this was impossible. If the lamps went out, he'd be unable to see his hand before his face. Abruptly, Elrond got up and went to open the door to the hallway, thus to prevent being cast into oblivion should the candles gutter or the torches sputter out.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, for as soon as he opened the door, there was the golden-haired elfling standing upon the threshold, as if he'd been waiting there in silence for someone to come and let him in. That was absurd of course for he could reach the handle easily and had done so before, but the feeling stuck. "Have you been standing there long?" asked Elrond.

"No," said the elfling simply and moved past him into the room. He scrambled up into the chair Elrond had vacated and sat gazing upon the silent, sleeping King.

"Henellon, I think you should be abed now. An elfling your age needs a great deal of rest in order to grow healthy and strong," said Elrond, following and standing beside the chair. That adorable face turned up to regard him with what he could only call intense irritation.

"I am not a little babe," he corrected. "I am a warrior. Besides, I cannot rest in the heart of the mountain, but I won't leave my Ada either. I only went to get something I needed and now I am back."

"So I see," Elrond was enjoying this interlude immensely. All his young ones were grown up now. "What did you have to get, penneth?"

"The trees, Peniaur," answered the child, a definite undertone of cheek in his words that Elrond did not like one bit. "If you can be quiet and still, I will let you stay."

Well, this was all too intriguing to focus on the child's insolent attitude and so Elrond bowed his head in silent agreement. Whatever could the elfling mean? As far as could be seen, he'd brought nothing into the room with him, much less trees.

The child gave him a last searching look as if to determine if he was trustworthy, and then stood in his chair. From the pockets of his tunic he began removing leaves, green and new, from a variety of species common around the mountain stronghold. He reached high in the air and then let one go. Elrond inhaled sharply; the leaf remained suspended above the bed. He suddenly realised the elfling was singing, the words unintelligible, the dialect one he'd never heard. As the song filled the space, the leaf trembled and then abruptly burst into a multitude of leaves such as would clothe a bare branch at the height of summer, though no woody stem was present.

He repeated his work with each leaf, moving around and even climbing carefully on the bed, so to soften the void between the rocky dome and the King's bed. When he was finished, the room was transformed and Elrond really felt the presence of green life around him. The phantom branches swayed and dipped as if a gent breeze played amid them. The leaves rustled and whispered their reassurance and comfort. When Thranduil awakened, he would find himself in a shady, restful glade instead of a stark sickroom.

The elfling exhaled a huge sigh. "There," he said, satisfied, and looked to Elrond. "I cannot do fire, though, so we don't have a sun. Do you know how to do the fire, Peniaur?" he asked.

"Nay, henellon," stammered Elrond, utterly shocked. Everyone had heard about sylvan magic, but he'd never actually spoken to anyone who'd witnessed it in person.

"Well, we can put the lamps altogether over there on the high shelf. The light coming through the leaves will look a little like afternoon sun, don't you think so?"

"Yes, undoubtedly so," nodded Elrond, still awed by the phenomenon he'd just watched unfold. The child was gazing at him expectantly and he couldn't fathom why. "What is it?"

"I cannot reach that high. Will you move the lamps for me?"

Elrond almost laughed, shaking his head over such an incongruous request. The magical child needed his help, of course he did, nothing unusual about that at all, no. He realised, as he relocated the lights according to the little prince's wishes, that if he lived ten thousand years more no one would ever believe this tale, except the sylvans. The task done, he was again about to ask the child his name when he turned to find the elfling curled up against his father's healthy side, sound asleep, eyes shut tight, thumb firmly in place between ruby lips.

Well, now he did laugh, softly and with great warmth, for it was too endearing for words. Quietly he collected another light blanket to drape over father and son, smiling when Thranduil instinctively reached a protective arm about his elfling. Elrond settled back in the chair and resumed his reading, much comforted by the subtle music of the swaying leaves over head.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

How long ago that was. Elrond shook his head, a faint smile upon his lips, and gently adjusted the cotton sheet covering his patient, taking time to check the pulse and ensure the bandages were not spotted with blood or puss. The elf stirred but did not wake, yet a low complaint escaped his throat, promising it would not be long before he did.

Elrond couldn't be sure, since he hadn't returned to Greenwood in the intervening years, yet somehow he was sure, that this was the very elfling he'd met all those centuries ago. It had to be more than two, at least,and he was an elfling no longer. Compact and lean, well made and muscled just the way an experienced woodland archer should be, skin tanned to a soft mellow golden glow, face so comely it made the heart (and the loins) ache to look at him. The elf was breathtaking, no other word would suffice. There were two previous scars, Elrond knew,having stripped his patient down, one on the thigh and one on the left shoulder, which this injury would join, but they were not enough to detract from his beauty.

Why had he never gone back there? He had meant to, hoping the unexpected encounter would at last create a true alliance between the distant realms, but life and fate had intervened. A thought struck him and he left the sickroom to enter the adjoining office. Hastily he rummaged in his drawers and files and finally found what he was seeking: a short note of thanks from King Thranduil, pledging his undying gratitude and promising to repay the debt in any way Lord Elrond wished. Beneath the King's elegant script had been penned a second note in the unsteady hand of a child. 'Thank you for saving my Ada. I love you. When are you coming back? Sincerely, Legolas.'

Carrying it with him back into the room, Elrond was grinning broadly. A long grunt and a truly foul expletive garnered his attention and he found his patient not only waking but struggling against the discomfort, thrashing under the sheet. Elrond went and took hold of him, firmly pinning him to the bed.

"Be still, all is well," he said.

The huge blue eyes opened wide, already smiling despite the pain, and locked on Elrond's. "Peniaur," Legolas said, voice hoarse and much reduced in volume. "Are you here to help me get well?"

"I am indeed," nodded Elrond, grinning back. He let go of Legolas and went to make a tonic to dull the throbbing he knew must accompany every breath, for the injury was a serious chest wound. He helped his patient drink it down and settled him into a more comfortable position, re-organising the covers that had revealed perhaps a bit more than the ellon would like. He found Legolas' gaze upon him when he sat back down in the chair. There was again that sense of questioning expectation on the elf's face and as before, Elrond had no idea why. "What?"

"I'm naked." The faintest touch of colour painted the high, fair cheeks.

"True, but there is a sheet over you to preserve your modesty."

"Under the sheet, I am naked," he insisted, tone clearly accusing the healer of unnecessarily stripping him bare.

"Yes, well," Elrond faltered a little and shrugged, "but what does it matter? Even I am naked under my clothing."

The fine brows went up and the blue eyes went wide and then a most speculative gaze travelled over Elrond's form from head to toe, lingering here and there in pertinent areas. At last Legolas met his gaze again, mischief and winsome allure worked into his features now.

"How long will it take this wound to heal?" he asked.

The End


End file.
